


Centripetal

by Mazarin221b



Series: Simple Physics [1]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, M/M, One Night Stands, Post-Life Born of Fire, Redemption, Revelations, bad choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-19 00:00:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James' life spirals out of control after the events of Life Born of Fire, a downward trajectory so steep and so sudden Lewis finally has to intervene.</p><p>  <i>“No time for hangovers, Sergeant,” Lewis says, and gives him a look that’s almost worried, almost fond, but never quite as much as James would hope for. Almost—the story of his life, isn’t it? Always falling just a tiny bit short. Almost cared for, almost chosen, almost loved.  </i></p><p>  <i>Last night, though. Last night was a jolt straight to the heart. Wanted, desired, touched. A kindled flame in his chest keeping him warm, rose-red and quietly his own. Another one-night stand, sure, but one he chose. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Centripetal

**Author's Note:**

> With massive thanks to Mydwynter, who listened to me natter about this story for a freaking month and whose brain helped me over some of the rough spots and then fixed them in beta, to HiddenLacuna and her laser eye beta and refusal to let me get away with anything, and Sc010f and Vicky, who looked at an early draft and let me know it was good enough to continue with.

Double shot latte for James,” the barista calls, and slides a paper cup across the countertop. Hathaway snatches it up and takes a desperate sip, torn between the need for an immediate caffeine infusion and knowing he’s going to burn his tongue in the process. He’s not been sleeping well, still a bit lethargic and groggy from smoke inhalation and perhaps a bit more rattled by Zoë (Feardorcha, his mind whispers) than he’d like to admit.

His ill-advised drink does burn his mouth, of course, and as he turns to grab a bottle of water from the cooler next to the counter he jostles a tall, statuesque brunette in an expensive red suit.

“I beg your pardon,” he starts, and the words fade away when he realizes he’s just made Nova Rose drip coffee down her chin.

“Well, some of us are in a hurry,” she says, and blots quickly with a napkin. “I can’t claim the same haste, fortunately, as the law will wait for me.” She finally stops patting long enough to look at James in the face, then stops dead, her mouth dropping open. “Oh dear Lord, James Hathaway. We heard about Zoë—I knew there was something off about her, Conan and I tried to tell Will—and listen to me go on. How are you?”

James nods. “Good. I’m…good, actually. Going back to work tomorrow.”

“Oh, that’s excellent. Here,” Nova lays her hand on James arm and steers him toward a table. “Listen, I don’t know the whole story, but we did get that Zoë had gone completely bonkers and went on a revenge spree. I don’t know what her problem was with you, but I am glad you’re okay.”

James nods. It seems the entire story hasn’t gone out, then. Not yet, anyway.

Nova pulls a cigarette out of her purse and holds it between her fingers. James recognizes the need for a smoke tugging on him as well, so he shakes one out of his own and gestures toward the door. Nova smiles sunny approval with bright red lips and allows him to lead her outside, where he snaps his lighter for her. She inhales gratefully and blows out slowly, giving James a considering look from behind a veil of smoke.

“Feel free to tell me to mind my own business, but you look like a man who could use some fun.”

James chokes out a surprised laugh. “The last time I tried that I ended up in hospital.” He lights his own cigarette, hoping his fingers don’t look like they’re trembling as much as they are.

“Not this time, promise. Come to Communion tonight, have some drinks, forget about things for a while. Conan will be there; he’s always good for a laugh and he knows practically everyone.”

James eyes her speculatively. There’s nothing in her manner but sincerity, nothing that has his over-developed sense of self-protection waving warning flags. The nights have stretched out long and lonely since he got out of hospital, the days quiet and dull behind a desk until he’s medically cleared as fit for field duty. A little break in the boredom wouldn’t hurt, would it?

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Good Lord, he’d forgotten how intense Communion was—the shifting lights, the heat, the smell of sweat and perfume and too much liquor overwhelming his senses as soon as he walks through the door. He feels awkward and out of place, but that’s usually how he feels, anywhere he’s not with either the band or with Lewis.

Lewis. He hadn’t expected to be welcomed back with open arms, but the distance between Lewis and him this last week has been troubling. He’s done everything that’s been expected of him and more since he’s been back, and yet it seems there’s nothing to be done to return himself to Robert Lewis’ good graces. He tries to put the grim face of his governor out of his mind and shoves the guilt down deep, concentrating on looking for Nova in the dim, packed space.

It doesn’t take long. Conan is as tall as he is, and Nova is in electric blue that gleams like a beacon among standard-issue club black. She air-kisses his cheek when she sees him, and Conan surprises him by giving him a long, serious look and shaking his hand before reaching over the bar and back and shoving a drink into his hand.

“You need this more than I do,” Conan shouts over the music. “You still look singed.”

James takes the drink with a quick lift in Conan’s direction and has a deep pull, shuddering as the chilled lime and the burn of vodka slide down his throat. He opens his eyes to find Conan smirking at him.

“Vodka gimlet, darling. Retro is so now. Come on, let’s dance.” James barely has time for another sip before Conan drags him, laughing, onto the dance floor. The beat is low and fast, a dark techno that has James picking out notes with his fingernails against the denim of his jeans. Conan sways to the music, his body moving effortlessly with the beat.

“I can’t dance,” James complains, and it’s true; his rhythm is in his hands, but never in the rest of him. He can’t seem to master that loose-limbed dip and roll of his hips, an almost unconscious mirroring of sex in the rock and sway of his body.

Considering his sexual experience is still pretty limited, he’s not entirely surprised.

“Hey, James,” Nova shouts from near his shoulder. “This is Ryan. Ryan Willis, James Hathaway.” Nova smirks and turns to Ryan. “That’s at least two you owe me now. He was staring,” she explains, and Ryan slaps his hand over his face, mortified.

“Christ, Nova, I don’t know why I bother—“ Ryan starts, and Nova just laughs gleefully.

“Because you adore me, darling. Now, ask him to dance before he dies of embarrassment.”

James can feel his face flame. He’s not sure if he’s ready for this, the sudden freedom to choose someone he wants, and oh, how he wants. Ryan is compact and a bit shorter than James, with warm olive skin and dark eyes that look equally playful and a bit shy. And the way Ryan is appraising him, it looks like that want is definitely reciprocated.

“Hi,” James says, and inwardly curses himself. Charming, James, truly.

“Hi,” Ryan says, and smiles. He’s got a lovely smile, and James’ stomach erupts in butterflies. The music shifts down to a slow, sexy beat that hits below the belt, and the freedom of alcohol makes James momentarily bold.

He holds out his hand in invitation, barely breathing, completely shocked at himself that he’s doing this, that he’s out, in public, for the first time in his life. The only people who seem to give a damn are Nova and Conan, and only because they’re watching him from the side and making suggestive gestures, the shits. When Ryan grins takes his hand and pulls James in close James can feel any quiet nagging doubts in the back of his mind vanish with the feel of Ryan’s chest under his palms. They shift close, his hands around Ryan’s waist, Ryan’s hands on his hips, and James finally stops bloody thinking and lets go.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

There are more drinks, more dances, and by the end of the night, James is being snogged expertly and thoroughly against the back wall of the club by a drunk and flushed Ryan.

“Bloody gorgeous, you are,” he murmurs against James’s neck, and James smiles, arches into the sensation of soft lips and a hint of stubble against his adam’s apple. “Couldn’t believe it when Nova knew you.”

“Mmmm,” is all James can get out, shamelessly grinding against Ryan’s thigh where it’s between his own and pressed against his groin. James feels amazing; light, careless, floating. He’s just on the right side of pissed, happily drunk but not staggering, and the only thing that could make this better is getting his hands under Ryan’s shirt.

“Cheeky,” Ryan says. “Come on, come with me.” He pulls James toward a door that opens into a below-street stairwell, and when it closes behind them, Ryan wraps James in his arms again, kisses him gently.  “A private little spot, at least for a little while.”

James smiles, even as his body alights with nerves. It’s dark, and quiet, and Ryan is looking at him with hooded eyes and definite intent. It should be so easy, to put his hands on Ryan and let Ryan put his hands on him, but now that the moment is here James feels a bit wary.

“May I touch you?” Ryan says, voice low and rough, fingers splayed against James collarbone. The little shiver James gets decides him, and he nods quickly.  Ryan slips his hand into the waistband of James’ jeans, loose and riding low on his hips, and the first brush of Ryan’s knuckles against his cock makes his knees buckle.

Ryan chuckles. “Been a while?” he whispers, teases James with kisses and the barely-there touch of his fingertips against James’ cock.

“Yeah,” is all James can manage, because the truth isn’t what Ryan wants to hear in this situation, he’s sure. So he picks apart the buttons of Ryan’s fly, dips his hand inside to caress the silky warm skin of his cock until Ryan is gasping against his neck. Ryan does the same, gets James’ jeans and pants down enough that he can free James’ cock and leans in so he can wrap his hand around both of them, stroking and grinding until James throws his head back and opens his eyes to the shimmer of stars in the sky above him, tiny pinpoints of light that take up his entire field of vision until the tight coil of pleasure in his body releases and he closes his eyes against the brilliance.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

“You okay?” Robert Lewis’ voice cuts through the fog of the worst hangover James has had in years. He nods, slowly and carefully, and moves his mouse around in a futile attempt to look busy. He knows his ruse won’t work—Lewis knows every twitch and dodge like the back of his hand—and it’s not a shock when a bottle of paracetamol appears on his desk.

“No time for hangovers, Sergeant,” Lewis says, and gives him a look that’s almost worried, almost fond, but never quite as much as James would hope for. Almost—the story of his life, isn’t it? Always falling just a tiny bit short. Almost cared for, almost chosen, almost loved. 

Last night, though. Last night was a jolt straight to the heart. Wanted, desired, touched. A kindled flame in his chest keeping him warm, rose-red and quietly his own. Another one-night stand, sure, but one he chose.

Lewis studies him again, this time with that look in his eye, the one that means he’s considering digging a bit further, and James can feel his face heat. He feels like one of the damned, destined to have all of his secrets picked apart by Lewis’ all-knowing gaze. He doesn’t feel guilty but he does feel a shudder of shame should Lewis work out exactly how he spent his time last night. Christ, he feels like a teenager, hiding love bites from his mum.

Lewis seems to think better of further interrogation, though, and turns to his computer instead. “Last day on your arse, James. I expect you back with me tomorrow.”

“I’ll be fine,” he says, grateful Lewis decides to let it go, and swallows two pills with a gulp of coffee.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

He is cleared as fit for unlimited duty, as expected, which means first thing Monday he’ll be back on full rota with Lewis. Perhaps finding their way back to their old routines will help settle some of the oddness still between them, a stretched and awkward distance that James could kick himself for. Of course Lewis wouldn’t have judged him for what he’d said, what he’d done those years ago when he still believed.  He’d have taken in the entire story about Will, about The Garden, with those wise blue eyes and nodded, patted James on the shoulder, and that would have been it.

The kindness would have been too much to bear, he thinks. Because Lewis would have been kind, absolutely, even when James knows he hadn’t deserved it, and still doesn’t.

James paces his flat, restless. He can’t seem to settle – not to playing guitar, listening to music, watching telly, anything. He can’t even focus on reading a book. His mind drifts back to warm, open-mouthed kisses and pounding bass, the tang of alcohol on his tongue and the heady buzz of arousal.

Christ. He’s getting hard just thinking about Ryan. He wonders if – well, he didn’t get his number; they’d both been so hazy after. They’d kissed a bit and Ryan waved and went on his way home, and James could kick himself. Searching out his number online seems too creepy to contemplate.

He stops pacing and drops on the sofa, scrubs his hands through his hair. He’s never had a problem living alone before, but the quiet of the flat, the dim, almost impersonal walls, seem too much to bear tonight, a looming reminder of just how alone he actually is. He needs a distraction, so he pulls out his mobile and dials.

“Hey, Nova, it’s James. Are you and Conan out tonight?”

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

His name is Neil, he’s 25 and a postgraduate in Chemistry, and James has his hands on his arse and his tongue in his mouth at a table in a dim corner of Communion in less than twenty minutes after they meet. He tastes syrupy, like rum and soda, and James tightens his grip when Neil moans.

“Wow,” is all Neil says when they break away, and James laughs, a little breathless. He’s about to dive back in when Neil puts his hand up.

“I think I could use another drink, love,” he says, and James nods. Before he can stand up and go get another round, Neil puts his hand on James’ shoulder. “My round. Don’t go anywhere, you,” he adds, and heads off to the bar. James leans back and sighs heavily. He’s had too much already, he knows, but he feels wonderful, relaxed with a shimmering thread of anticipation running through it all. He thinks he’ll invite Neil back to his place, maybe. Take a little more time than he had with Ryan.

A little whispering voice in the back of his mind that isn’t drunk on lust and whiskey screams at him to be sensible, that he doesn’t do this, he never does this. That mornings after were always guilt-ridden, rife with uncomfortable and awkward glances and talk. Ryan was easy, Ryan was safe, precisely because they had it off and parted ways. But James wants more, wants to spend hours touching and tasting, losing his fear and his inhibitions, and Neil’s easy charm makes James think he just might be the one to do it.

He is, oh God he is. James spends half the night engrossed in the flavour of Neil’s skin, the texture of his body against his tongue, and the exhaustive euphoria of release after release after release. It’s like riding a wave, high and shining and bright, and for just one night, the darkness in his mind recedes to a small, tiny speck, easily ignored.

The next morning he’s woken by the shake and shudder of the bed as Neil rises, but his body aches, it feels like there’s fur on his tongue, and the streaks of light from the window seem impossibly bright.

“I’ve got to go, there’s a family thing on today,” Neil says, and kisses James on the temple. “We’ll do this again, yes?”

James nods, tries to curl one arm around Neil’s waist. Neil laughs.

“No, none of that. I’ve really got to go. My number is in your phone. Call me when you’re sober.”

James drifts, and when he wakes up a few hours later, he realizes he doesn’t even remember Neil’s last name.

Which is slightly disturbing when James is in the shower and scrubbing the dried streaks of Neil’s come from his body.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

James sleeps most of Saturday, hoping against hope he doesn’t get called out for a case, goes back to Communion that night, and as he’s sleeping it off again on Sunday he’s somewhat disappointed that his mobile doesn’t ring all day. Lewis is in Manchester with Lyn, but he usually gets at least a horribly-constructed text or a call letting him know that Lewis is on his way back to Oxford. But there’s nothing, and the silence rankles at the same time it leaves him feeling hollow.

He staggers back to Communion on Sunday night a little worse for the wear, determined to have a good time but to get home at a decent hour because he does have work Monday, after all.  No picking anyone up tonight either; the memory of a debauched and thoroughly shagged Neil hovers in the corner of his mind at every quiet moment. So he just enjoys the drinks and the music and Nova and Conan trying to outdo each other in who might have the most ridiculous post-shag story.

“He climbed onto the roof, darling, I swear,” Conan says. “Trying to prove he still had it in him for one more go. Mmmm, those thighs.” Conan looks at the ceiling, dreamy for a moment. “Of course I let him think he’d proved it to me, later.”

Nova laughs. “What about you, James? You’ve been getting around a bit lately. Don’t think I didn’t see that little chit you took home Friday,” she says, and wags her finger in his face. “You bad boy. Robbing the cradle.”

“Nothing that exciting, I’m afraid,” James says. “Just a bit of fun.” He swallows the rest of his drink in the face of Nova’s raised eyebrow, and before they ask anything else he grabs Conan’s hand. “Come on, let’s dance.”

“But you don’t dance,” Conan says, hastily putting his drink down and pulling Nova in tow.

“I do now,” James says, and he does. He loses himself in the music, the elegant sway of Nova’s hips under her bright pink dress, Conan’s comical shimmy. The lights flicker and shift, bright green and yellow and pink, and as the alcohol dulls James’ senses, sends him drifting, he thinks to hell with the enigma that is Lewis; this might be all that he ever needs.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

When his mobile rings, waking him, he’s disorientated and oh dear God, does his head hurt. But he slaps at the mobile on his bedside table, finds the answer button by muscle memory alone, and brings it up to his ear.

“Hathaway,” he says, and hopes like hell he doesn’t still sound drunk.

“Where the blazes are you, man?” Lewis thunders in his ear. “It’s nearly 10 AM!”

James winces. “Oh hell, my alarm didn’t ring. I’m so sorry, sir.”

“You’re damn right you’re sorry. I want you here, at your desk, in thirty minutes. Clear?”

“Yes, sir.” Lewis rings off without saying another word and James groans, flops his head back down onto the pillow. This was not the way he wanted to reset his relationship with Lewis, to begin the rebuilding he knows he must if he wants to salvage anything of it. He’s assuming there’s something left to be salvaged, anyway. The fact he hadn’t heard anything at all from his governor all weekend is all he needs to know about just how bad things could be—and now he’s just added fuel to the fire.

The shower isn’t even hot when James dives in, scrubs the reek of alcohol and cigarettes from his skin, his hair, in record time before he attempts to shave and brush his teeth at the same time. He didn’t get to the drycleaner, so his only decent suit is his black one he usually keeps for funerals. How apt, he thinks wryly. But he does have a shirt and a decent tie, so he hurries into his clothes and is out the door in less than 15 minutes, head pounding and eyes still a bit bleary.

Does he risk it and stop for a coffee? Should he bring Lewis one, a little tribute as befits a bagman not in the good graces of his governor? He slows as he passes his usual, sees the queue is to the door, and decides against it. The only available parking spot is in the farthest back corner and he makes a sprint for it, in the door and up the stairs, barely missing colliding with Jean Innocent as she rounds the corner near the office he shares with Lewis.

“Hathaway!” she chides. “Where’s the fire?”

“I sincerely apologize, Ma’am, it’s just that…”

“He was making a run for me, Ma’am,” Lewis calls from the door. “Time sensitive.”

James breathes a sigh of relief when Innocent merely dismisses him with a twist of her lips and an exasperated eyeroll. He slides into his chair and it’s 33 minutes, and he can feel Lewis’ disapproving glare from across the room though he doesn’t look up.

“I am … so sorry, sir,” he says, and feels his empty stomach heave.

Lewis looks at him, then stands up, closes the door, and leans against the front of his desk.

“I know it’s none of my business how you spend your off-duty time, but when it affects the job, I’ll make it my business. This is twice in five days you’ve shown up hung and it’s going to be the last.”

James nods, wishes desperately for a coffee. Or at least a cup of water. He feels like he needs to run for the bathroom and wouldn’t that go over well with Lewis when he’s in the middle of a lecture?

“I know the last week has been … difficult. Is there something you need to talk about? Get off your chest?”

James considers it for a long minute, Lewis’ expression bordering on expectant, if not strangely hopeful. But James knows better—one confession to a man as skilled as Lewis would lead to another, and then another, and soon he’d be spilling his every desire in a desperate rush. “No, I’m—I’m doing better, sir. Truly. Just overindulged a bit. Joy of being alive, you know.”

Lewis looks at him like there was anything on Earth he’d have believed before that, but he doesn’t push, simply walks around his desk and sits down. “All right,” he says. “Let’s just do our best to get moving again, eh? I’ve had to do me own legwork all week long. Even got my own coffee, believe it or not.”

Of course he did. James smiles, nausea fading with the warm feeling in his stomach. “I was still actually here, sir.”

Lewis looks serious again for a moment. “Not for long, you keep this stuff up.”

James can feel the smile fade from his face. “Excuse me sir, please,” he says, and darts for the door, throwing it open in his haste to get to the loo. He staggers into a stall and falls to his knees, stomach clenching but nothing coming up.

 …………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

He manages to make it through the rest of the day, once he gets some paracetamol and coffee and his favorite yoghurt with granola, which Lewis looks askance at as ridiculous hipster frippery, but which James is willing to risk Lewis’ smartarse remarks for. 

They don’t talk about what happened in Jericho; Lewis pretends he doesn’t notice when James scratches the scab on his face and has to stand with his handkerchief pressed to it for five minutes to stop the bleeding. It makes James edgy, all day, waiting for that hammer to drop, and he finds himself almost ready to bring it up himself just to relieve himself of that tension.

He doesn’t, though. Lewis made it abundantly clear he wasn’t comfortable talking about the topic despite his offer to James of a listening ear; indeed the entire case had made him awkward from the start. His stumbling questions about James’ sexuality, his defensiveness. None of my business, he’d said, yet he’d continued to ask. The stepwise conversation of a man who isn’t used to talking about sex at all, with anyone, who nonetheless has learned to think around the conventions of his youth. Though perhaps he never had them to start with. _It wouldn’t matter to him if it were his own son_ , James’ mind whispers.

James finds a way to make it to the end of the day, physically exhausted and completely mentally drained from keeping himself acting as normal as possible while he and Lewis canvassed a block of flats looking for witnesses to an vicious assault. He waves Lewis off when he offers to give him a ride and makes his way back home, collapsing into bed without even taking his suit off.

The search takes three more days, and James prides himself that he seems to find that centre, that midspace of calm that helps him to push everything else aside and focus on the job at hand. He’s had the ability to do that most of his life, but at the sight of Will, broken and bleeding in profane offering in front of the altar, James felt the centering weight that kept him sane break free of its moorings and swing wildly and out of control.

The extended time with Lewis does make James feel a bit more serene, if slightly still off-kilter, and he dives into work with an enthusiasm that leaves Lewis giving him odd, concerned looks when he thinks James can’t see him.

And it’s the utter, sudden normality of his life that makes James happier, more relieved, than he can express. He and Lewis spend the week amicably if generally apart, as they’ve commandeered two teams of constables and have fanned them out all over the city to look for Tyler Grosse, 22, electrician’s assistant and prime suspect in the assault for which James and Lewis were trying to pin down witnesses on Monday. Almost everyone seems to be avoiding saying anything, except one person: the victim, Melinda Cope, Tyler’s girlfriend. She demanded to see Lewis as soon as she woke, and with the help of a nurse, a pencil, and a pad of paper, promptly cursed Tyler for a bloody limp-dicked bastard and commanded Lewis find him before she did if he wanted him alive. Lewis patted her un-casted arm, swore he’d find Tyler, and strode from the room, jaw set, James following after.

But even bloody limp-dicked bastards know when they’ve gone too far, and by Thursday, Grosse has hidden himself away more thoroughly than a rabbit in a warren.

“That poor girl’s going to be lucky to walk again without a limp,” Lewis growls, stalking down the hall and into their office, James right at his heels. “Tiny little thing like her, against a brute like Grosse?”

“Grosse is a bully,” James says, and sits down at his desk. He powers up his computer and opens his email, hoping for something to come in, but there’s nothing. “He’s probably out of county by now.”

“Or out of country,” Lewis says.

“No, I don’t think so. He’s not got the money or the connections.” James stares at his screen. There’s something tickling the back of his mind, something he remembers reading but just hasn’t quite managed to fit together yet. The fog of exhaustion on Monday has lessened, and James folds his arms over his chest and leans back in his chair, thinking, barely registering the low murmur of Lewis talking to DC Stapleton and plotting their next search area.

Grosse has two sisters. No luck with either of them. Parents divorced. No luck with them, either. Father remarried once, but divorced his second wife four years ago. No children with the second wife. But the second wife, she had a daughter from her previous marriage...

“Oh!” James says, and bolts upright in his chair, scrambling for his mouse to open his field notes.

“What is it?” Lewis mouths, hand over the mouthpiece of his phone.

“The stepmother. Her only daughter is 21, Callista, and she’s studying at Oxford.”

“I’ll call you back,” Lewis says, and hangs up. “Now, what’s this about the stepmother?”

“Her daughter is Grosse’s age. They knew each other for almost 10 years before their parents divorced. I have no idea what their relationship is, but we should at least find out.”

Lewis jumps up from behind his desk and pulls his coat back on. “Then let’s not let the grass grow,” he says, and his immediate acceptance has James grinning as he digs his keys from his pocket and leads the way to his car.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

James feels more smug satisfaction than he probably ought when Grosse is found to have been hiding out the entire time in a basement bedroom of the house his former stepsister, Callista Hall, shares with three other housemates. Callista is shocked to see Lewis and James standing at her front door, and the lack of guile with which she lets them inside and tells them exactly where Grosse had been staying surprises James.

“How could you not know we’re looking for him? It’s been all over the news!” Lewis says, and she shrugs.

“If it’s not Warcraft and it’s not schoolwork, I’m not interested.” She twitches her braids over her shoulder and lazily pets the enormous tabby on the sofa next to her. “He said he needed a place to crash for a while, that he and Mel had a row and he was letting her cool off.”

James and Lewis look at each other in mute agreement. “I think we’ll just stay until he gets back,” Lewis says.

“Suit yourself,” Callista says, and retreats back to her bedroom just as the front door opens and Tyler Grosse walks into the sitting room. He takes one look at James and Lewis standing there and tries to make a break for it, but James is too quick and gets a hand on his sleeve. He pulls, twists, tries to shake James off but James is persistent, determined, and drops him by getting one foot hooked around Grosse’s ankle and pulling.

“Tyler Grosse, you’re under arrest for assault,” he begins, then looks up, startled, when his face is less than a foot from Lewis’ as Lewis handcuffs Grosse’s hands behind his back.

The smile that breaks across Lewis’ face takes James’ breath away, and the “Well done, James,” that follows pulls his heart along on a string and leaves him floating.

He is abruptly jerked back to Earth when his invitation to Lewis for a pint at the Trout is gently, firmly rebuffed with a gentle smile and shake of Lewis’ head.

“Been a long week, and I’m knackered. I could sleep for the next one, I think. Besides, you’ve got a social life now, haven’t you? Better you spend time with people your own age. Not too much time, mind,” he adds with a chuckle and James automatically reaches for the blandest expression he can manage, hoping the cold hit of disappointment he feels doesn’t show on his face.

“All right.” James glances down, lights a cigarette. “I’ll be home before midnight, Dad,” he adds, and wonders as he walks away if he had only been imagining the tinge of sadness he saw on Lewis’ face.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

After wrestling with the decision while hanging up his suit, James decides to go to the Trout anyway for a decent pint. He pulls on a hoodie and a pair of well-worn jeans that were the first to hand, trainers, and a pair of gloves, and sits at a table by himself on the deck with a pint, smoking and drinking and staring at the stars, a fortification of vast dark sky to bank against the hollow within.

He’d been so certain things had finally normalized. That he was beginning to work his way back under Lewis’ sheltering wing to steal those few moments of closeness he would allow, and that would be enough. It really would, those moments, peppering his life with just enough heat that he could survive the cold. Doesn’t matter that he’d not have the searing heat of those fingertips against his throat, or the press of that body against his own. It doesn’t.

Christ, he’s drunk. Drunk and maudlin and he should go home. He stubs out his cigarette and prepares to do just that, kicking one leg over the bench and heading back inside. As he does, an older man in a sleek dark jumper breaks away from a small knot of people on the other side of the deck. The man walks alongside James and opens the door back into the pub.

“Thanks,” James says, and angles off toward the front.

“You’re welcome,” the man replies, and winks, and James is a bit startled at the frank appreciation in the man’s eyes. “I saw you outside there, and, well, a bit alone, are you?”

“Yeah,” James replies without thinking, and could kick himself for not being at least a bit more circumspect.

“I’m Malcolm,” he says, and holds out his hand.

“James.” James shakes his hand, and Malcolm’s smile only grows. He’s handsome if a bit tan, dark hair shading to silver and lines crinkled around his eyes that remind James of Lewis, though without the clear goodness that marks his wry blue gaze. He’s obviously wealthy, on the hunt, and James hates the little curl of satisfaction he feels at such rank flattery.

“Buy you a drink, James?” Malcolm asks, and gestures toward the bar. “If we’ve got to drink alone, we may as well do it together.”

James smirks, looks down. It’s a terrible line but the twinkle in Malcolm’s eyes suggests he knows it, and that as much as anything else makes James nod and take a table inside while Malcolm gets the drinks.

He comes back with a pint for each of them, and they make small talk for a while (investment banker, divorced, two teenage kids he never sees any more) and the entire time there’s a quiet tension underlying the entire conversation, a thready pulse of interest that James would have been blind to two weeks ago and can almost scent now. The clear interest Malcolm is showing is as intoxicating as the beer, and before he realizes what he’s doing James pushes back from the table.

“Pardon me, I’m just, er, going to the loo,” he says, and his heart speeds up until it’s almost vibrating when he catches the peripheral movement of Malcolm getting up from the table just as James ducks into the gents.

The door barely touches the frame before it opens again and Malcolm strides in, closing and locking the door behind him. Catches James’ face between his hands and kisses him, hard, licking into his mouth and shoving a leg between James’ thighs.

“Christ, been thinking about your mouth since I saw you,” Malcolm says, and James moans approval, gets his hands under that posh silk jumper and pulls Malcolm against his body, resting his weight against the sink. The fixtures creak under his weight as James leans his head back against the mirror, Malcolm copping a feel of his cock through his jeans as he sucks kisses onto James’ neck. It’s hot and desperate and they don’t have much time, so he gets Malcolm’s flies open, fumbling a bit with drink and haste, and runs his fingers down the shaft of Malcolm’s cock a few times to get the feel of him. James twists and leans down just a little bit so he can stroke a fingertip behind Malcolm’s balls and as he does, Malcolm puts a hand on the crown of James’ head.

“Would you?” he asks, and the breathless hope in his voice, the longing, makes James shiver. He nods and slides down to the floor, pushes Malcolm against the wall and drags his cheek along Malcolm’s cock. He smells gorgeous, warmth and musk and expensive cologne, and when James takes just the head into his mouth Malcolm hisses with pleasure.

James presses the flat of his tongue against the frenulum and tries not to feel smug. He’s gotten better at this, and from the sounds Malcolm is making behind gritted teeth, Malcolm agrees with him. James circles the head with his tongue a few more times before sliding his mouth down further, one hand around the base to steady himself and another trying to get his own trousers open. He gives up when Malcolm gets both hands around his head, the change in weight throwing him off balance, and he grips Malcolm’s thighs and tries to pull back enough to not gag.

“ _Fuck_ , yes,” Malcolm whispers, and James tries to match his rhythm, hollowing his cheeks as he sucks on the upstroke. Malcolm doesn’t last long, simply chokes back a cry and comes across James’ tongue in hot, bitter pulses that James tries to swallow before it drips out of his mouth. Malcolm pets his hair carefully and James shifts uncomfortably against the hard tile floor, cock aching against the front of his jeans. He braces himself against Malcolm’s thighs and stands, leans in to nuzzle against his neck and rub up against Malcolm’s hip. He’s wound tight enough that he could go off just like this, but oh, he really, really wants those gorgeous hands on him.

He’s shocked when Malcolm pulls away. “You’re a lovely one, pet,” Malcolm says, and tucks himself away while sliding out from between James and the wall. “But I really need to be on my way home.” The sudden draught of cold air between them is a shock, and James stands, dumbfounded, as Malcolm straightens his clothes in the mirror, gives him a quick smile, and opens the door.

James doesn’t say a word, simply relocks the door behind him, bends over and braces his hands against the sink, eyes focused on the reflection of his flushed cheeks and swollen lips in the mirror. Takes a handful of water and rinses his mouth and spits, sucks in a deep breath and holds it before lashing out and levelling a kick at the waste basket in the corner. The crunch and crumple of the thin metal is satisfying for all of five seconds until James realizes someone is knocking on the door. He throws it open and pushes past the surprised man on the other side, stalks out the door and into the street.

Honestly, what else should he expect?

He’s still too drunk to drive, so instead of walking across the road to the car park he turns toward the bridge, steps slowing when he reaches the middle. The dark rush of water below him is soothing, hypnotic, and he lights a cigarette, takes a deep drag to chase away the phantom sensation of Malcolm against his tongue not five minutes before.

Stupid, is what it was. Second-best. Hollow. But enlightening in a way he wishes it wasn’t, in a way that clarifies his heart and speaks his own mind, a search for a replacement of something he never had in the first place.

Almost, but not quite.

He burns the fag down to the filter and throws it into the river with a flick of disgust. Walks back to the car park and plonks down on the pavement with his back against his car and decides to wait out his drunkenness instead of calling a cab, the hard concrete an uncomfortable sort of punishment.

He’s burned down the best part of a second cigarette when a man strides past him, slows down a few steps past and stops and turns back. Someone he had not thought he’d see again.

Ryan.

“Thought that was you,” Ryan says, extends a hand to pull James up from the ground. “What on Earth are you doing down there? Lying in wait for someone?”

“No, I just—,” James starts, then mentally shakes himself. “Never mind. How are you?”

“Better than you are, if that bit of lean you’ve got is anything to go by. You okay?”

James nods, and he is fine, really. Just a bit drunk. Not too drunk to appreciate Ryan’s warm brown eyes, at any rate, which is another stupid idea on the incredibly long list of stupid ideas he’s had this evening.

Ryan smiles, and James realizes he’s still holding his hand.

….................................................................................................................

After that it’s easy to let Ryan follow him back to his place, to strip him of shoes and shirt and trousers and press him against the front door. He shouldn’t. Not with the phantom feel of Malcolm’s thighs under his hands, the smell of his cologne on James’ cheek. He shouldn’t but he does, anyway.

“Eager,” Ryan says, and tilts his hips toward James’ hand, encouraging. “Thought a one night stand would be it.”

James doesn’t answer, just kisses him with enough force it’s almost painful and drops to his knees to press open-mouthed kisses to Ryan’s cock, hard and straining against the front of his underwear. Ryan groans, cups a hand around the back of James’ head.

“Jesus, that’s a hell of a sight,” Ryan says, before freeing himself from his pants and stroking himself lightly. James dives in, gets his mouth around the head of Ryan’s cock, and sucks him off with his eyes closed, Ryan’s fingers fisted in his hair tight enough to bring tears to his eyes.

…............................................................................................................................................................

The rest of the night is spent in an alcohol-fueled, lust-induced haze that James barely remembers two weeks later. There’s more scotch and more gin, enough cigarettes to make him feel queasy. James drifts in and out of consciousness, the night and most of the next day a blur of hands and mouths, the burn of Ryan’s cock against his skin, under his skin, inside his body; the bright edge of teeth. It’s a blackout, a deep oblivion of pleasure, and James lets himself drown.

“Need my mobile,” he slurs sometime in the night, body wrung out and sated.  “Work might call.”

“If you’re still worried about the office, love, I’m not doing it right,” Ryan says, and presses a kiss to his shoulder, nestles his cock against James’ arse. James tilts his hips, feeling lazy, warm desire without urgency. They’ve just finished and Ryan is plastered against his back, fingertips trailing over James’ stomach. The thought of work, of Lewis, is a distant one, a vague shape of an idea that he should probably stop drinking now if he hopes to be sober by the next afternoon.

The thought is still with him as he drifts off again, and he isn’t sure how much time has passed when he feels a hand on his shoulder, shaking him, making his head spin.

“Go ‘way, Ry,” he slurrs. “Sore.”

“Not as sore as you’re gonna be when the Chief Super strips your hide,” he hears, Lewis’ familiar northern growl in his ear.

“Oh, fuck,” he says. Tries to turn over, and only succeeds in making himself dizzy.

“Yeah, that’s about right.”

….......................................................................................................................

Lewis drags him out of bed despite his attempts at protest, manhandles him into track pants and tee shirt and hoodie and shoes. James is aware enough to notice that Lewis looks grim, determined, and is studiously ignoring the naked Ryan still out cold in his bed.

“What’re you doing?” James says, or attempts to say, because he’s still drunk and wobbly and Lewis has him out the front door and is pushing him into the front seat of Lewis’ car.

“Didn’t save your arse two weeks ago to have you lose your job,” Lewis says.

“Didn’t ask you to,” James mutters, because now he’s cold and starting to shiver, and his mouth tastes unspeakably foul.

Lewis parks outside of his flat, pulling up the emergency brake with barely-restrained fury. “What, almost dying in a fire not punishment enough for you?”

James shoves the door open and staggers out onto the street. Lewis darts around the car to help him but James pushes him off, uses the car to balance himself and makes his way around the back of the car to the pavement. Lewis hovers behind him, reaches around to unlock the door and James stomps inside. Drops onto the couch and crosses his arms, and feels irrational anger bubble up in his chest.

“Drink this,” Lewis says, and gives him a glass of water.

“Yes, Dad,” James snarks, but the cold water tastes divine, and a nap would be even better.

Lewis frowns at him. “Not your Dad. Done my share of raising kids, thanks.”

“Don’t need a dad, anyway.”

“Good,” Lewis says. “Go take a shower. You’re a mess.”

“Not my Dad, remember?” James says, but pulls himself off of the couch and huffs as he staggers down the hall. “Why’re you even doing this?” James opens the linen cabinet and pulls out a towel, rummages around in the little basket until he finds the bottle of his shampoo he keeps at Lewis’ flat for all-nighters or times they’ve had too much to drink and he doesn’t get home. Turns to find Lewis studying him with arms crossed and the crease of a frown between his eyebrows.

“Why are you?” Lewis asks, and James slams the bathroom door behind him.

…................................................................................................................................

Lewis doesn’t say anything else when James stumbles back out into the living room, and James is grateful for what he is sure is a momentary lull in the questioning. He takes advantage of the silence and merely collapses back onto the couch, which is now made up with a sheet and a blanket.

“You know where I am if you need me,” Lewis says, and his voice is surprisingly gentle. “Just don’t throw up on the carpeting.”

James huffs and flops down onto the couch, and the motion makes him feel ill. “What’d you tell Herself?”

“That you’ve got ‘flu. I traded with Peterson, so we owe him two on-call weekends. Sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”

James settles against the pillow that Lewis tucks under his head, and does.

At least for a little while. He comes abruptly awake at three in the morning and feels like his stomach is about to turn inside out and he stumbles for the bathroom just in time to get his head over the bowl. He’s probably thrown up more in the last month than he has in the last ten years, and he realises ruefully that this probably is the most fitting sort of penance for his indiscretions.

James rests his head on the bathmat. It’s fuzzy and blue and the fibres tickle his nose, but he doesn’t mind. It’s comforting and warm against the cool tile floor.

His stomach relaxes a little, a respite of minutes between wave after wave of nausea that draws him to his knees, retching and coughing up liquor and sour bile. He tries not to think of what other things he might be bringing up, and groans softly when he sinks back down on the floor to rest.

There’s a creak, the sound of footsteps and a quiet tap on the door.

“James?” Lewis says, his voice rough with sleep. “You okay?”

“Yes,” he croaks, and it’s a fight to even say that much. His throat is aching, and he doesn’t even want to get up far enough to get a drink of water from the sink.

“Can I come in?” The doorknob turns slightly, the door opening a tiny crack.

Oh God no, he can’t, he can’t see him, stained tee shirt and sweaty neck, and God knows how bad the rest of him is. “Go away,” he calls. “I’m fine.” As soon as he says it his stomach heaves, and he’s back on his knees.

The door opens wider at that and Robbie slides inside as if he were trying to shield James from the scrutiny of the rest of the world. He is half-shadow from the tiny nightlight, rumpled and concerned and sleepy in ridiculous striped pyjamas. James is relieved to see him and excruciatingly, burningly ashamed.

“Have you had any water?”

“No. Too far.”

Lewis twitches a frown and walks back out, his footsteps going down the hall and back, and James closes his eyes. He can’t move, doesn’t even want to. The door creaks open again and his fingers twitch, aborting the attempt to push his body into a sitting position.

Strong hands work their way under his arms and pull him upright, leaving him to sit back against the wall.

“Drink,” Lewis says. “A little. No sense having it all come back up again.”

James takes the glass, and his grip is weak enough that he dribbles water down his front as he tries to take a sip.

“Oh, for heaven’s—here.” Lewis holds the glass and James takes a drink, the water cool and soothing as it slides down his throat. He takes a few more sips and tries to stay sitting, but it’s almost impossible.

“Really, sir, you can leave. I’ll be fine,” James says, and starts to tilt sideways, back toward the floor. He should probably stay in the bathroom for now, though it has been a bit longer since his last round.

Lewis looks undecided, a simple shift in his expression that James understands immediately. Perhaps if he sits up and takes a little more water, Lewis will be satisfied and leave him to his fate without being further witness to the crumbling mess his life has become at his own hand. James gestures weakly for the glass, takes another drink but he gets too much, and as soon as the water hits his stomach the nausea is overwhelming and he throws it all back up, groaning. So much for dignity.

He fumbles for some tissue to wipe his face and to his shock finds Lewis directly behind him. He tries to turn away but Lewis draws him back to sit on the floor between his spread legs, James’ back to his chest and head on Lewis’ shoulder, and James is suddenly, acutely conscious of the state of his face and shirt.

“Not sure you want to get that close,” he says, and leans forward, away from the comforting warmth along his back. “I need a new shirt.”

Lewis reaches up toward the sink and pulls down a bundle of cloth. “Here,” he says. “It’s one of mine, if that’s okay.”

James takes the soft, worn grey shirt as if it were a precious bundle, cradles it in his hands. There’s some sort of logo in blue but James can’t read it in the dim light, and he continues to stare until Lewis prods him gently in the arm.

“Let me help,” he says, and tugs gently on the bottom hem of James’ shirt, lifting it up his back. James can feel the brush of fabric as it slides up his skin but Lewis is very careful not to touch him. James raises his arms and helps get the soiled shirt over his head, throwing it into the bathtub, then pulls Lewis’ shirt over his head. It’s thin with age, a few worn holes here and there, and smells like laundry soap, like Lewis’ house, like Lewis himself. Lewis helps smooth it down, then pauses. He gently slides to the side and allows James to sit back against the wall, seemingly aware of the tension climbing in the little space.

“I feel like a complete idiot,” James says, because that’s what he _should_ say, but the comfort of Lewis’ shoulder pressed against his makes him feel greedy.

“You probably should,” Lewis replies. “I don’t pretend to understand it, but I imagine you’re still a bit inside out over it all. You’re young. Your liver will recover.”

James snorts a laugh, then groans when his stomach muscles protest. He slides down the wall, and before he second-guesses himself, rests his head on Lewis’ thigh. Lewis doesn’t shift, doesn’t try to dislodge him, and tentatively rests one hand on James’ forehead.

“Not feverish, at any rate,” he says. “Daft idiot. If you’d wanted to tie one on that badly you should have said.”

“Mmmm.” James is sleepy, finally feeling marginally better and less like his stomach is turning inside out. Lewis’ thigh is firm under his head, and as he settles, he thinks he feels the brush of Lewis’ fingers in his hair.

They sit in silence, the only sounds the creaks of the flat settling around them, the occasional groan of the pipes as a neighbour turns on the tap. James drifts, quiet and content, the cold from the floor seeping into his body but he doesn’t care, only wants to focus on the warm point of contact between his cheek and Lewis’ body. He falls asleep, mostly, or he must, because when he is next aware Lewis is speaking, low and fond and barely discernible.

“…and you drive me half mad some days, but it’s more than I ever thought I’d have. What would you want with me, eh, lad? What do you need?” He pauses, and James does feel fingers in his hair this time, a barely-there caress. “What I want from you isn’t even in your imagination, and I won’t make a fool of meself by asking for it.”

James breathes in, turns his head slowly until he nudges Lewis’ palm with his nose and brushes the soft skin with his lips. “ _Drunk as drunk on turpentine,_ ” he whispers, and can feel Lewis tense slightly. James braces for rejection, but Lewis simply moves his hand to brush his thumb across James’ lower lip, rest it at the corner of his mouth with his fingers splayed against the side of James’ neck.

They stay like that until the early hours of the morning claim them with the sunrise.

…...............................................................

Breakfast, or what passes for breakfast for James as he can still barely stomach more than half a slice of toast and a small glass of juice, is a quiet affair, he and Lewis looking at each other out of the corner of their eyes, glancing away as soon as it seems they might get caught. James does catch him once, and they stare, mute, for half a minute before Lewis turns back to his paper and James feels the hair on the back of his neck rise.

James stands, places plate and glass in the sink and settles back into his blanket nest on the sofa. If Lewis won’t talk about it then James won’t either, and James picks up a section of the newspaper left on the coffee table and tries to distract himself with the local council reports. He doesn’t get any farther than a proposal regarding horses on local streets when he closes his eyes, lets himself sink into the heaviness of his limbs, and falls asleep.

The sun is obviously past noon when James wakes again, startled by the sound of keys in the front door. Lewis is trying to walk in quietly and James watches surreptitiously as he hangs up his jacket.

“Where’ve you been?” James asks, and yawns.

Lewis pulls out one of the stools tucked under the bar and sits. “At your place. Checking to be sure your...friend didn’t rob you blind when he left.”

James wonders if he imagines the tiny twist of distaste in Lewis’ expression. “His name is Ryan. And he’s not the type.”

“Right about that. Made the bed and did the washing up, believe it or not.”

“I don’t expect you to understand.”

“Good thing, probably.”

James shoves his hand through his hair and stands. “If we’re having this conversation I need coffee.” He strides into the kitchen, pulls out the old-fashioned electric percolating coffee pot Lewis still keeps, fills it with fresh grounds and plugs it in. While it’s brewing, he gets two mugs, the sugar, the milk, and puts it all on the bar under Lewis’ intense and watchful gaze.

“You remember Nova Rose?” James asks, and at Lewis’ nod, he continues. “I’ve been going out to Communion with her and her friend, Conan. Lovely, both of them. That’s where I met Ryan.” James takes a deep breath, meets Lewis’ eyes. “And ... other people. It was nice. Being … wanted, I suppose. Sort of addictive.”

Lewis’ lips press into a thin line, and James can feel himself brace for impact.

“Still not my business what you get up to when you’re off-duty,” he starts, and James feels that hidden reserve of anger—at Lewis, at the situation, at Will, at himself—start to flare.

“Do you never think that there are days where I wish you would make it your business?” James snaps, and Lewis’ eyes go wide.

“No,” Lewis says quietly. “I suppose not. But you’re an adult. You’ve got to make your own choices.”

James snatches at the coffee pot and pours two cups—without for Lewis and with sugar and milk for himself—and as he slaps one mug onto the worktop in front of Lewis he sloshes coffee onto the front of his tee shirt.

“Fuck,” he growls, then stops cold at the sight of the stain spreading across the shirt he’s wearing. Lewis’ shirt. And as James puts the coffee pot down, he knows instinctively how to turn the handle so it doesn’t get caught on the cord. It cascades, now, one revelation after the next: how he found everything he’s needed here since last night, the simple comfort of Lewis’ flat as an extension of his own, the ease with which Lewis simply enveloped him into his life over the years without a fuss, without comment. The soft, sad resignation with which Lewis acknowledged that James needs to make his own choices.

His choice. Everything he never knew he had, he needed, right in front of him. Even on offer. Christ, he’s such an _idiot._

“Last night,” James starts.

“Last night you were drunk.”

“You weren’t.”

“No,” Lewis says, and fiddles with the handle of his mug. “I wasn’t.” 

He refuses to look up so James steps around the worktop, takes a deep breath. Fits the curve of Lewis’ jaw in his hand and leaves his thumb pressed at the corner of Lewis’ mouth. He pauses, fingers trembling, waiting for that final confirmation, that final shift forward that says yes, this is what you’ve been looking for, I’ve been here all the time.

He finds it in the sudden press of Lewis’ lips, warm and coffee-flavoured, against his own; in the warmth suffusing through his body and the bright spark of arousal underneath it all. 

“ _Drunk as drunk on turpentine,_ ” James says, and his chest feels tight. “ _On your open kisses.”_ Lewis grins, affectionate and tolerant and accepting, and James swallows down a sound that even he isn’t sure would be a sob or a laugh.

“Are you for me?” James asks, and his heart thunders in his chest as Lewis gathers him in, holds him close, tucks his face in the curve of James’ neck and smoothes his hands over James’ back, comforting and warm.

“Always have been,” he says, and James does laugh then, his hands finding their way around Lewis’ waist, his heart finding its centre once again.

**Author's Note:**

> The poem James quotes is Drunk as Drunk, by Pablo Neruda:
> 
> Drunk as Drunk
> 
> Drunk as drunk on turpentine  
> From your open kisses,  
> Your wet body wedged  
> Between my wet body and the strake  
> Of our boat that is made of flowers,  
> Feasted, we guide it - our fingers  
> Like tallows adorned with yellow metal -  
> Over the sky's hot rim,  
> The day's last breath in our sails.
> 
> Pinned by the sun between solstice  
> And equinox, drowsy and tangled together  
> We drifted for months and woke  
> With the bitter taste of land on our lips,  
> Eyelids all sticky, and we longed for lime  
> And the sound of a rope  
> Lowering a bucket down its well. Then,  
> We came by night to the Fortunate Isles,  
> And lay like fish  
> Under the net of our kisses.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Centripetal by Mazarin221b](https://archiveofourown.org/works/750846) by [fire_juggler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fire_juggler/pseuds/fire_juggler)




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